


"All-or-Nothing"

by ans8812



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-29 03:27:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8473645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ans8812/pseuds/ans8812
Summary: Michael Latta/Reader Imagine; you didn't know love until he came along.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was started before Michael was so cruelly ripped away from the other Brobeans and sent across the country to LA, hence he's still with the Capitals.

Even if you had thousands of pages, the world would not be able to contain the books you could write about how you ended up here. You don’t even know how the hell you ended up here; in Washington D.C., more specifically the Ritz-Carlton downtown, at a Casino Night fundraiser hosted by the city’s professional hockey team. For once, though, you are not in the black and white uniform of the servers. Rather, you are wearing a sleeveless, fitted black dress with a flared skirt, V-neckline low enough to show some cleavage but not falling out, sprinkled with glitter, and mid-thigh length if you were taller than 5-foot-3. But you are not, so it falls to just above your knees. Paired with your favorite – and only – pair of silver wedge heels, simple faux-diamond necklace/bracelet combo, long curly hair tumbling over your bare shoulders and make-up, you actually feel pretty. Of course, you probably look like a troll compared to the other hockey wives and girlfriends – models, all of them, leggy, thin and naturally beautiful. They wear stilettos, skinny jeans and tops that cost more than you make in a month as casual clothing while you prefer oversized hoodies, leggings and Converse – or comfy boots, depending on the season.

 

You are talking to Jay Beagle and his wife Ashley, who was your first real friend when you arrived in town a year ago, broke and homeless. It was her recommendation that got you the bartending job where she also works; the same bar in the city that the Washington Capitals also happened to frequent. And where you met _him_. Across the room, Michael Latta is talking to his best friend, teammate and roommate Tom Wilson, teammates Andre Burakovsky, Nate Schmidt, Braden Holtby and their significant others, laughing at something Burky said. You love Michael’s laugh: nervous when he’s on camera, hesitant when he doesn’t know how to react, genuine when he’s surrounded by friends and family – like now – without the pressure of cameras, microphones and TV crews. He looks so damn handsome in his black tux, accentuated with a red vest and rose boutonniere matching the red rose tucked into your hair. The Capitals organization bought the flowers, but you pinned it on his lapel. He tried, bless his earnest heart, but then he had looked up at your with those dark brows pulled together in a crease between his hazel eyes, lips pushed out in a cute, frustrated pout.

 

“Will you put this thing on, babe?” he had asked, holding the flower and pin out in his palm. You had to bite your lip to keep from laughing at his misfortune, and you saw the red flush heating up his neck and cheeks with embarrassment. You took the boutonniere and straight pin, stepping closer to place it on his lapel.

 

“You never had to do this for prom or anything?” you teased.

 

“I didn’t go to the prom,” Michael admitted, lifting his chin to give you room to work. That little personal detail was surprising considering this guy could have been the fucking prom king. He had everything going for him; hockey player, handsome as hell, a little awkward at times but also the sweetest man you have ever met. So it could not have been because he didn’t have a date. Girls and women have probably been tripping over themselves to be close to him since he hit puberty. He had not offered any further explanation, though, and you had not pushed the subject. Instead, you smoothed out the front of his jacket and leaned back to admire your handiwork. He thanked you with a shy smile and tilted your chin up for a sweet kiss, then held his crooked arm out like he was the king and you his queen.

 

“Mi’lady,” he bowed at the waist and you giggled, placing your hand on his forearm and allowing him to guide you to his truck.

 

Now, as your eyes meet across the busy room and his bow lips turn up in that little smirk that you have come to realize is for you alone, it seems like your heart might swell and burst from all the emotions he incites in you. Michael and you have been dating a year but have yet to use the “L” word, which is not as dramatic as it sounds considering you have been physically together only a fraction of that time. When he is traveling with the team, you talk on the phone and video chat when possible, but it’s still not like being in the same room; being able to hold hands, kiss, to see his facial expressions unmarred by a computer screen and just to feel his presence make all the difference. Besides, you vowed to never use that word on another person again if it wasn’t true, and he respected your choice. You also suspect he has been burned a time or two as well, and maybe he would tell his story someday. Maybe you would tell yours. For now, both of you are enjoying discovering each other, being together, learning each others’ likes and dislikes, passions and dreams. There is no pressure to be or do anything more.

 

Michael lifts his chin, beckoning you over, and you excuse yourself to join your boyfriend and his friends. You come into the conversation already in progress. The guys part for you to slip in between Schmidty and Michael, and you take your boyfriend’s hand. He gently squeezes your palm, pulling you close to his side: safe and warm, two words you thought you would never be able to use to describe a man in your life.

 

“Okay, [Y/N], you’re the tiebreaker,” Tom Wilson turns on his flirting eyes, which you quickly learned was just his normal gaze. He is the definition of tall, dark and handsome, and he knows it. But so does his boyfriend, and after three years together Ryan seems used to Tom’s….um….wiles.

 

“What?” you shift attention between Michael and Tom, then around to the other men, Schmidty’s girlfriend and Holtby’s wife.

 

“Baby, she’s as biased as me. Your results are going to be weighted,” Ryan pats his tall boyfriend’s broad chest. He’s a marketing executive. He knows these things.

 

“We can’t have a tie. There needs to be a winner and a loser,” Tom reasons. He is an athlete; winners and losers make the world work, in his mind. “Who would make a better figure skater? Burky or Latts?”

 

Your eyes take in your boyfriend; big, broad, six feet of tight, rippling muscle with cedar tree thighs, high cheekbones, straight nose and well-defined jaw. He is beautiful, but…. “Sorry, babe, I have to say Burky.” Tom hoots and has a little celebration for himself, Burky looks offended and everyone else laughs.

 

“Ha! See? Tall, thin and Swedish makes for a great figure skater,” Tom taunts Ryan, who rolls his eyes but has a smirk playing on his lips. That is when Alex Ovechkin comes up behind the Swede, ruffling a hand through Andre’s dark curly hair then throwing a big arm across his shoulders.

 

“Why you still talk? Drink and gamble. I just take five hundred from Backy,” Ovi’s words were slurred in his already broken English. Backy must be the designated driver tonight.

 

“You know you don’t get to keep it, right, Ovi? It’s for charity,” Tom reminds his captain.

 

Ovi pauses, scanning the circle until his grin lands on you and he winks before clapping Andre on the back, “Is still victory. Ovi win. Backy lose.” Then he is gone, wandering off to another poker table.

 

You aren’t much for gambling, but it is for charity so you play some slots with Ashley, Nastia Kuznetsov and Lauren Oshie. You can talk, drink and support good causes all at the same time. Michael and Andre join Ovi and Backy at a poker table while Tom and Ryan wander off to play craps. Every so often, you steal glances over at your hot boyfriend; his face flushed from the wine, brow furrowed as he concentrates on his cards, dimples on full display as he laughs at something Ovi said, a cheeky grin when he bluffs Andre and gathers up all the chips. A couple times he caught you staring, and you give him a shy smile or bat your eyes, teasing. He winks and goes back to his game.

 

“That boy is _totally_ gone for you, you know,” Ashley comments as she drops another penny in the machine and hits the button.

 

“Yeah, well, I am too,” you say, watching the numbers and pictures on your own machine cycle through until they land on a three and two cherries. You try again.

 

“He’s going to want to put a ring on it soon,” Lauren pipes in, her own giant rock glittering from her left ring finger. “I didn’t tell you this, but he’s been talking to TJ, asking questions about being married, buying a mortgage.”

 

Ashley looks at you, eyes wide, “Do you think you would consider marriage? Because he’s an all-or-nothing kind of guy.”

 

“I know,” you feel nauseous all of a sudden, taking a long sip of your own red wine in hopes it would calm your fluttery stomach. Personally, you thought marriage was a bunch of horseshit; an antiquated ritual for the religious types to hand off their daughters to a man who was supposed to love her and provide security, but in actuality he would probably take advantage and abuse her. Although, maybe you didn’t have the best examples of marriage while growing up. Jay and Ashley have been together since high school, married since college, and they seem to be fine. Michael is a traditional guy. You knew this going in. Tom had said Michael wouldn’t even date a girl unless he was 95% sure he could see himself marrying her, and in the two years they had been roommates, Tom only knew of two girlfriends in Michael’s past. So yes, you knew this conversation was going to happen someday, but you just figured it would be further down the road and that either your mind or his would be changed about the whole concept of marriage.

 

“Is not so bad, marriage,” Nastia smiles, leaning across Lauren to pat your knee in sisterly solidarity. “Hockey player gone a lot, but he kind and take care.”

 

“Thanks, Nastia.” The sweet Russian woman and her hockey-playing husband, Evgeny, a teammate of Michael’s, had let you crash at their place rent-free for a couple weeks while you searched for apartments when you arrived in DC. You had been staying in a motel, but once Nastia found out – from Ashley, no doubt – the Kuznetsovs insisted you stay in the guest room of their huge three-bedroom apartment. An act of kindness for which you will be eternally grateful, and the Kuznetsovs have never once expected anything in return.

 

 

 

It’s not long before you have enough of all the people and the noise, and you slip out to the terrace. The spring night is cool, but you are slightly flushed from the wine and stuffiness of the crowded ballroom, so the air feels refreshing. You hear the French doors open behind you, briefly allowing the party sounds to escape before they are shut again. Looking over your shoulder, you see Michael, hands in pockets, walking to stand beside you at the terrace railing.

 

“You get tired of all the people and the noise?” he gently bumps your side with his then puts his arm around your waist. You lean into his touch, nodding. He wraps you up in both arms, your head at his chest and your forearms raised to rest on his broad shoulders. If there was music, you would be slow-dancing. Instead, your fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck and you tilt up on tiptoes to kiss those full, bow-shaped lips you love so much.

 

“Mmm,” you sigh and smile, licking your lips, “did you win, babe?”

 

“I did better than Burky, but no, Ovi schooled all our asses. There is some consolation in the fact that our money goes to good causes and not the Ovi-needs-new-shit fund,” Michael’s fingers brush some loose curls back from your face, his knuckles grazing over your cheek and eyes lingering on your face. “Tom said you were the most beautiful girl in the room tonight, and I whole-heartedly agree.” His deep voice is rumbly and sexy like when he first wakes up in the morning.

 

You blush, “Yeah, well, Tom is gay and you’re biased.”

 

“Doesn’t make it any less true, babe.”

 

“You are sweet, Michael Latta,” you cup his cheek in your hand, “how did I get so lucky?”

 

He just shrugs and smiles, his hazel eyes shining in the moonlight and not leaving yours as he turns his head slightly to place a kiss on your palm, “I don’t think it was luck, [Y/N]. I’d like to think that God, or the universe, or whoever brought us together for a reason. Like, you fill the holes in my life and, hopefully, I fill whatever’s missing in yours. We complement each other, you know?”

 

Maybe it’s the wine – you do feel a little tipsy – and fresh air or Michael’s sturdy body and Ralph Lauren cologne, but either way you are suddenly feeling introspective and bold, “What happens when we stop complementing each other, Michael? What if there ever comes a time when we don’t need each other anymore, or we stop being what the other person needs?”

 

His face screws up in confusion, lips pursed and brow narrowed, “Who says we ever will, babe? Personal needs change, and if we’re together, and work to keep our relationship, I don’t think we’ll ever stop needing each other. No disrespect, [Y/N], but not all relationships end up like your parents’.”

 

“I know that, Michael, like, in my head I _know_ that. Ashley and Jay, Kuzy and Nastia, Lauren and T.J., hell even Tom and Ryan are proof that not all relationships go sour, but I can’t seem to translate that to my heart. There’s like this fucking siren in my head every time things are going great that _something_ is bound to go wrong, or he’s just playing me or I’m more into it than he is, and it’s always been right. At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself, but what if I’m the one sabotaging relationships because I’m too fucking scared to let guys get too close?”

 

“Until me, right?”

 

You pause, studying his face, “What?”

 

“I love you, [Y/N].”

 

Eyes wide, mouth open, you are sure you look crazy, and maybe Michael is on the same level of insane because he is still holding you, smile sweet as ever.

 

“What-what did you say?”

 

He takes your face in his big hands and leans down slightly to meet your gaze, repeating himself slowly to make sure you understand his intent, “I love you, [Y/N]. You’re stuck with me forever, if you want, because I am not going anywhere. Baby, the night we ran into each other – quite literally – at the bar, your cute little lip bite, the way you apologized profusely for spilling beer on my shirt then tried to wipe it off with your hand, those expressive eyes and your wild curls, I was gone. You ruined me for anyone else. I fucked up so bad at practice the next day because I couldn’t get you out of my head. Then I got to know _you_ ; your kindness, intelligence, the way you love my friends and teammates, your sense of humor, your independence….and the way you treat me. [Y/N], you aren’t judgmental or trying to get with me just for my money.”

 

You snicker, “Baby, if I wanted money, I would be trying to do Jonathan Toews.”

 

“You’re so romantic and not shallow at all,” he deadpans.

 

“I’m kidding, Michael! I love you too, babe,” your fingers play with the soft hair at his nape and you pull him down enough to place your lips at the corner of his mouth, then he is sliding his mouth over yours. He tastes of wine and something uniquely _Michael_ : sweet, tart, all man. You run the tip of your tongue along his plump lips and they open for you to lick into his mouth. He returns the favor, tongue curling around yours, and your eyes flutter closed at the sensations swirling through your body. Michael’s hands flex on your hips, pulling your body flush against his, lips nipping and brushing together. You shiver but it’s not from the light breeze; his kisses have always set you on fire. But he pulls you closer against his chest – if that was possible with no space between your bodies – his arms going all the way around you as his lips slant sweetly on yours. Responding in kind, you melt into his warmth and sigh against his mouth.

 

You moan as he begins to pull away, chasing his lips, needing to keep contact, “No, come back….mmmmm.” You press gentle kisses to his chin, giving special attention to that dimple in his left cheek you love so much. He smiles, rolling his head to the side to give you access to his neck, and you find the spot near his collarbone that turns him on every time. He moaned.

 

“Baby, [Y/N], wanna continue this party at home and take our clothes off?” Michael lifts your face from his neck with his hand on the back of your head, and you raise your eyes to meet his lusty gaze. His mouth is shiny with the lip-gloss you had reapplied before coming out here.

 

“Yes, please,” you reach up to wipe his lips with your thumb, giggling at the thought of allowing him to walk back through that room full of his teammates with the evidence of your activities all over his face. But you know how locker rooms could be, and Michael is a private guy, so you wouldn’t do that to him. With your hand in his, you both say good night to everyone.

 

Barely inside the apartment, your hands and lips are all over each other. You push his jacket off his shoulders in the kitchen, his shirt falls to the floor in the hallway, and by the time you make it to the bedroom his pants are undone and halfway down his ass. Michael has his hands up your skirt. You are pretty sure you lost your panties somewhere between his jacket and shirt. He pushes you up against the bedroom wall, rolling his hips for you to feel the bulge in his pants against your lower abdomen, and you curl one leg around his calf, rubbing your thigh against his.

 

“You feel so good, [Y/N],” Michael growls against your ear before capturing your lips in a frenzied kiss. Tongues, teeth, mouths, spine bowing, breaths hot and mingling. You whine when he slides two fingers into the wet heat between your legs. Forehead bowed against yours, those intense silver-blue eyes watching you react to every push and pull of his fingers against your slick flesh; an action he has done hundreds of times – well, probably – but never fails to make you moan. Your head is light, vision swimming as the pleasure he incites curls through your belly, and you think you are whining out his name but you can’t be too sure. Nothing coherent is going through your head right now; just sensations brought on by his touch and the thrumming in your veins. “Too many clothes, baby.” He is tugging at the bodice of your dress, but you reach down to cover his hands with yours.

 

“Careful with the dress, Michael,” you manage to gasp out. He smirks down at you. His skilled fingers work the delicate zipper, pushing the fabric down your hips to pool at your feet. Then you are on the bed with his wide, thick, naked body covering yours, settling between your widespread legs, his clever fingers finding the wet heat between your thighs again. Soon, he’s guiding himself to your entrance, breaching, his thickness sliding along your slick walls and making you feel completely filled. Whole. Your toes curl and back arch at the pleasant invasion, but then he stops.

 

“Keep going. _Move_ , babe. God, you feel so good,” you whimper, knowing it sounds wanton but beyond the point of caring. He obeys. Leaning down to cover your lips with his, Michael begins rolling his hips, and you grip his hard, flexing biceps, getting lost in his body and the intimate pleasure. Michael’s lips close over your peaked nipples, your fingers pull at his hair, your hips bucking up to meet his increasingly frenzied thrusts. You come first, screaming his name, and he’s not too far behind. Michael gathers your close, pulling out to come all over the sheets. He kisses your sweaty temple.

 

“I love you, [Y/N],” Michael’s husky voice rumbles in your ear. “I do. I love you so much. Not your body, though I do love that, but I love everything you are. I can’t believe I am yours and you are mine, babe.”

 

You smile at your post-sex poet of a boyfriend, running your hands through his sweaty dark hair, pushing it off his forehead, “Same, Michael. The more I’m with you, the more I realize I didn’t know what love was until you came along.”

**Author's Note:**

> I swear I'm gonna marry that man someday!
> 
> Thank you for reading. Please comment. This author is very thankful for your feedback.


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